


Simmer on Low

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Fade to Black, Fluff, Multi, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, mild whump, semi-implied consensual voyeurism?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: Scenes from five kitchens.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	Simmer on Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takingoffmyshoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/gifts).



The safehouse in Istanbul isn't large. Napoleon likes it, though, despite its modesty relative to the luxury hotel of Rome. Their apartment here looks out onto a narrow lane, with windows which admit the sun in the morning, before the heat of the day becomes too intense. It's a few minutes' walk from a bustling street market through which Napoleon comes and goes, strolling past glossy eggplants the colour of the night sky and shimmering silver fish caught the same day. All too tempting to resist. So in his off hours he's been experimenting. At first he cooks only for himself, a well-worn habit of so many years of independence, but as the weeks drag on it becomes increasingly absurd to jockey for counter-space with Peril as they both make individual portions when instead they could alternate cooking for two. An unspoken rotation develops, Napoleon's mildly fussy French and Italian-American dishes offset by Illya's more robust Russian fare. Neither offers the other a compliment, but neither offers complaints, either.

Napoleon doesn't see Gaby cook much apart from buttered bread and cheese for breakfast. The mission has them working separately most days, so he isn't sure what she's eating, but with street food in such abundance it's a fair assumption that she's taking advantage of what the city's vendors provide. Still, he starts making portions a bit too generous for him and Peril to finish, and takes some small satisfaction in glancing in the fridge to find the leftovers quietly disappear when he isn't looking. After a week of complete stealth Gaby grows bolder, lurking about sometimes when he cooks, sharp want in her eyes, like the street cats which stalk the fishmongers.

Yet she keeps her distance, feigning aloofness if he catches her eye. He assumes this will be the full extent of it until one day, when Illya is off with Waverly and Napoleon decides to throw together a rice pilaf. He's in the process of measuring out the rice when Gaby's head appears in the kitchen doorway.

"What are you making?"

"Pilaf."

"Oh." Gaby is very good at being very hard to read. In the two months that he's known her he can't really claim to _know_ her, but he knows this much. Yet there is an unmistakable hint of disappointment which flits across her face. He averts his gaze, starting at the cup of rice in his hands, trying to intuit her reaction. This would be easier with Illya, who has no qualms about spelling out the precise nature of any disappointment Napoleon provides. But Gaby, he's learning, won't even admit to being disappointed, he suspects because it would imply that she'd allowed herself the unseemly weakness of wanting something. So he puzzles, nearly giving up when his memory halts on that first night in Berlin, when he'd made her risotto. Risotto which she'd claimed smelled of feet, but, when he disappeared to be chewed out by Sanders, risotto of which she'd devoured two servings.

"You want some risotto instead?"

It's the wrong tack; too conciliatory, too close to soft, causing a stricken look from her, making it plain that he's guessed correctly and she doesn't like that he was able to do so.

"I really don't care," she insists.

"Okay." He goes to the fridge to see if they have chicken stock.

"Just keep making your pilaf."

"Who says I'm doing this for you? I want risotto too, now." It's a half lie, he's definitely doing this for her, but she seems to at least know what to do with his brusqueness, looking more at ease. As he gathers the ingredients she sits at the table, saying nothing but watching intently.

"I don't have any truffles this time," he says while he retrieves the chicken stock he's fairly certain Illya meant to save for whatever he's cooking tomorrow but oh well.

Gaby mumbles something about how without truffles maybe it won't smell like feet.

Facing the stove so he can get a pan of oil on simmer, Napoleon grins. "Are you gonna just sit and watch or are you gonna help?"

Instead of the snarky retort he expects Gaby rises, drifting to stand beside him, her head cocking as she watches him begin chopping the first of two shallots. He takes off the tip and tail, falling back into the familiar motions with a confidence that makes him relax a little.

"Where did you learn to cook?" she asks.

Pausing, Napoleon lets himself smile faintly. "Here and there. But mostly when I spent a couple of summers running long cons in the south of France. Étienne," he murmurs, hearing warmth in his own voice. "Man was the best forger I ever met and a damn good chef to boot. He knew everything about good food and taught me enough to fake it for high society." He lets his smile turn roguish. "Taught me some other things, too."

Gaby doesn't take the easy opportunity he's given her to roll her eyes or scoff or whatever other forms her disapproval could take, gaze locked on the motion of his knife while he neatly dices the shallot, the way he's seen her stare at Illya sometimes when he isn't looking back at her; like she has her eye on a vexing puzzle which she's attempting to work through in her head without as much success as she'd like.

"Here." On a hunch Napoleon offers her the knife and the next shallot. "If you can rebuild an engine from scratch—" which he knows she can, "—you can do this."

The hint of challenge works. She steps before the cutting board, taking the knife but then hovering uncertainly.

"Take the ends off, then run it lengthwise, not too deep." Napoleon uses one finger to demonstrate the line of the cut. "Just enough to free the skin."

"I _do_ know how to cook," Gaby retorts, but she follows his directions.

"Who taught you?"

"I taught myself. Not all of us were old enough to fuck _Étienne_ when we had to learn." The words come out more brittle, Napoleon thinks, than she meant them. "How did you—?" She's tried to start dicing but gone too far, slicing clean through the shallot instead of scoring it, making it fall apart instead of standing in place.

"Don't cut so deep, leave a bit at the bottom. And who said anything about _fucking_ Étienne?" he adds, faux-scandalized, just to get a rise out of her.

"Then what exactly did he teach you?"

"Woodworking, of course."

Gaby snorts. "Sure." They both know he's lying and both grin at the shared knowledge, their little secret. It's perhaps the thing they have most in common, as far as he can tell: they're liars. Illya has many gifts, but he's a terrible liar. "And now I—?" She turns the shallot, mimes cutting through it crosswise.

"Yep."

With a half dozen careful draws of her wrist Gaby has the shallot diced, during which time Napoleon checks on the temperature of both the broth and the oil, then hands her a couple of cloves of garlic to mince. Soon they have the shallots and garlic simmering in the pan, warm aromas filling the kitchen, making Napoleon smile when Gaby comments that it smells good.

"Ready to stir?" he asks after everything has sautéed for a few minutes.

"For how long?"

"Too long," he answers with a chuckle.

They fall into a rhythm, ladling in a portion of broth, stirring for a few minutes, then switching off for the next round, little conversation passing between them.When it's Gaby's shift to stir Napoleon leans against the edge of the counter, sipping idly at a glass of local wine, watching her work with a focused intensity which seems too serious for the task at hand.

"You know, the risotto isn't going to go up in flames if you look away for half a second."

Gaby shakes her head, continuing to stare down their dinner. "When I was eleven I was with this foster mother for a few months. She worked late some evenings. I was expected to feed myself. One time, I was trying to do homework while I made dinner, but I got distracted and burned the bottom out of a pot. I tried to hide it but she found out and—" Gaby grimaces. "I learned my lesson."

After two months, this is the first time Gaby has willingly revealed anything of her past to him. He tries not to place too much meaning on it, not fully succeeding.

"Switch," he grunts, scooping another ladleful of broth over the rice, because he's not sure what else to say. She steps back, ceding control of the stirring spoon before shamelessly helping herself to a sip of his wine. "You want to start grating the cheese?"

She nods, her shoulders dropping a little; perhaps glad that he hasn't responded to her story with pity or questions. With a bounce of her hip she pushes off the counter, retrieving from the fridge the block of Parmigiano-Reggiano which keeps shrinking whenever he leaves it in the fridge, losses he suspects are caused by Illya's snacking. They're shoulder to shoulder while she works, and it occurs to Napoleon that the last time he really cooked with someone like this, not as part of a seduction or ruse but just for the shared purpose of a good meal, was with Étienne. For most of his adult life he's told himself he prefers to go it alone, but this realization still makes him ache with distant emptiness.

"Is this enough?" Gaby questions, indicating the pile of cheese she has grated.

Napoleon glances over. "Perfect. Okay, toss that in here, along with a bit more butter and some salt and pepper."

Finally, he's able to stop stirring. Gaby has already pulled out a couple of plates, hovering eagerly while he serves them both then taking up a spoonful of hers just standing there, not bothering to go to the table. Her eyes close and she makes a low hum deep in her throat as the first taste hits her, and Napoleon swears internally, trying to remind himself of Rome and all that happened between her and Peril there, and how he was decidedly not included in any of that.

"Good?" he asks, forcing mildness into his voice.

"Good," she confirms before going back for another bite. Her eyes stay open and she stays silent this time, but the sun through the window is still turning the loose curls draped over her shoulder a fiery copper and highlighting the curve of her shoulders. Napoleon has to make himself look away. Fortunately he has some easy distraction in the form of his own plate. The risotto, he discovers, is indeed quite good.

They eat their first helping just like that, leaning against the counter, the stove warm at Napoleon's left side and Gaby warm at his right, still lifting the odd sip of wine from his glass, the pink wax of her lipstick something he's not sure if he should avoid or not. Once again they're silent, but one thing he's learned after their two months working together is that silences with her are not uncomfortable voids he feels compelled to fill, just comfortable spaces in which he can exist without the need to perform some heightened version of himself to an audience. He suspects that if he were to try she'd see neatly through his affectations, anyways.

Gaby finishes first, brushing past him to heap another generous spoonful onto her plate then wandering over to the table. "We should make this more often," she declares.

 _We_. Huh.

"Yeah, we should."

While she's looking down at her food Napoleon lets himself gaze at her for a moment. Then he shakes his head, smiling, warmth filling his chest.

* * *

By December they're in Lucerne. Illya doesn't miss Istanbul. It was too hot and seeing Gaby in her sundresses, bronze arms and legs gradually darkening in the sun, Solo in his shirtsleeves, no tie in sight, the line of his throat achingly exposed, made Illya feel things. Things which seemed too large to fit neatly in the place he wanted to shove those feelings, some back corner of his brain where they wouldn't distract him. It's colder in Lucerne, and therefore his partners are showing less skin, which is good.

This time he's sharing a house with Solo. Or, rather, the top floor of a series of flats on the south bank of the river, a few blocks from the university. Gaby is off on her own, staying in some fancy hotel as part of her cover story as a rich German heiress, casually mentioning during their phone calls that she's just come from the hotel's spa or restaurant, in between grumbling about one of their targets refusing to speak in anything but the thickest Swiss German accent, rendering Gaby's ability to understand her spotty at best and maddeningly fleeting at worst.

What is less good about the whole situation is that he's _sharing a flat with Solo_ which means that without Gaby there as a sort of prickly, unwilling buffer, Illya can't avoid socializing with Solo, which itself means that Illya has come to the horrifying realization that Solo is, in fact, not a complete and utter asshole and might even be appallingly good company. Truly tragic. They've even begun to play chess together some evenings. Solo isn't good enough to beat Illya, caught as he is in that amateurish fixation with improvising his own ineffective openings rather than using a more useful established one, but he's unpredictable enough to keep things interesting for a bit and gracious enough to lose without souring the fun.

(And if, after Solo concedes another defeat with a smile disarming enough to make Illya feel something flutter rebelliously within his chest, then Solo slumps back in his chair, crossing his legs ankle-over-knee so Illya's eye is drawn to the unmistakable swell at the middle of his too-tight trousers, well, Illya tries not to dwell on his growing suspicion that he's on the losing side of whatever game they're _really_ playing here.)

Annoyingly distracting feelings which still refuse to be wrestled down aside, they work well together, live well together, and the other day when talking to Gaby Illya almost accidentally conceded that he may not hate Solo at all, which of course means the calm couldn't last.

Solo goes and gets himself beaten up and has the absolute _gall_ to do it trying to protect Illya. How incredibly rude of him.

"You should have waited for me," Illya chides for probably the seven-thousandth time as he helps Solo limp into their flat before propelling him forwards with a bit more purpose when Solo doesn't respond apart from swaying.

"Bathroom?" Solo questions.

"Too small for both of us. Kitchen." The kitchen is surprisingly large for the flat, just as large as the main room, but with cold tile floors that, while unpleasant, will be easier to clean if Solo is bleeding anywhere. He gets Solo situated in a chair then flicks on the light dangling over the table, taking Solo by the jaw to examine the reddened beginnings of a black eye.

"You gonna play doctor?" Solo murmurs, his face making for a grin before he hisses and winces when the motion pulls on his split lip.

"I can call Waverly with a real doctor if you prefer."

Solo shakes his head faintly. "Ah, no."

"Then shut up."

With a snort, Solo goes silent, though Illya doubts this will last. There's a blood vessel that's burst within that bad eye, too, just below the pupil, tinting Solo's gaze crimson when he fixes it on Illya. It's not the worst injury Illya has seen by far, he's not worried, but something about that spidery blossom of blood sitting so unnaturally against the white of the eye always disquiets Illya. Solo doesn't seem bothered. Probably not even aware it's happened, since Illya doubts he's seen himself in a mirror yet. When Illya presses a thumb gently into the bone around Solo's eye, waiting on bated breath for anything to crunch or shift, Solo winces but stays quiet.

"Broken?" Illya asks, even though he's fairly certain it's not.

"Nah, just hurts like a motherfucker."

"Good." Illya presses a bit harder, just to be sure. Just to hear Solo curse him out under his breath, because Solo was a little shocky when Illya found him and the fact that he's now reacting more like himself does a lot to reassure Illya that he's going to be okay. Then he lets his hands skim downwards, the angle of Solo's jaw falling into his cupped palms, allowing Illya to tilt his head up again, looking for any further damage. As he moves his fingers brush the paradoxically soft-bristled skin of Solo's throat. Solo swallows, his eyes wide, the image nearly sensual if not for the blood in his eye and the angry, swollen skin around it.

"Your eye is fine," Illya says abruptly, pulling his hands away, that rebellious _thing_ in his chest twirling like a leaf caught in a storm. "I need to see your torso." Because he's fairly certain Solo was kicked in the stomach at least once and Illya may be no doctor but he has enough training as a field medic to know whether he'll need to break his promise not to call a real doctor.

Getting Solo's black sweater off is a two-person operation, which would be far faster if Solo would let the sweater be cut off, but he makes noises about the quality of the wool and insists on it being kept intact. A bit of wrestling later Illya manages to pull it over his head along with his undershirt, and finally gets his first look at the mottled beginnings of bruises on Solo's ribs and stomach. Illya grimaces in sympathy.

"Yeah, I know," says Solo, not cocky anymore. "Look, I don't think I have any broken ribs."

"We will see." Then Illya squats and begins methodically checking him over, starting with a hand to Solo's naval, apologizing when Solo winces and complains of Illya's cold fingers, searching for the tautness of internal bleeding, relieved just to find smooth skin. There's no bruising or tenderness near the spleen, Illya's next point of concern, it doesn't even look like Solo took any hits to that area, so he slides that down the priority list from 'potential emergency' to 'should be fine but keep an eye on it'. Solo's assessment of his ribs seems to be correct, no signs pointing to a fracture. Illya rocks back on his heels, releasing a breath of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding captive for too long.

"Fighting fit?" quips Solo, though he still hasn't quite recovered his usual bluster.

"Fit to lie in bed and rest for the next day. Maybe longer. Stay there, you need ice for your eye." Illya glances at the way Solo is cradling his right hand in his lap. "And your knuckles. Any of those broken?" he asks while heading for the freezer.

"Nah, just more bruises for the collection."

When Illya finally locates the ice cube tray he turns back to face Solo, his thoughts briefly arrested by his first real glance at Solo not with an eye trained on small details for injury but instead seeing the full picture of him sprawled in his chair, legs wide, bloody-knuckled and split-lipped and black-eyed, his bare chest and stomach shifting with every breath he takes, a trail of dark hair feathering out from his naval to disappear down into the waist of his trousers. He looks like a prize-fighter, a brawler, a look Illya never expected to see on the often foppish American. That flighty little thing in Illya's chest darts in the breeze and sends a bolt of heated awareness up and down his spine.

"What?" Solo prompts after a second, making Illya twitch and yank himself over to the drawer to find a towel to put the ice in. Solo wasn't supposed to—Illya didn't mean to—

"Nothing," he manages to bark, harsh, trying to think of Gaby, of how much clearer his path is with her, but his brain instead presents him with the image of Gaby _and_ Solo, her dirty with engine grease the way she gets after working on a car and Solo like he is now, fiercely masculine, imaginings which make everything so very much worse instead of better. He focuses on making a parcel of ice then crushing it to smaller pieces using the first heavy thing he can get his hands on, a cast iron skillet. Bludgeoning the ice is tremendously therapeutic. Illya may end up making the pieces much smaller than strictly necessary.

But when he turns around again, Solo just looks tired. In pain. Like whatever pride or anger had been buoying him along has evaporated, leaving him worn out and sore. Illya steps over, softly pressing the bundle of ice to Solo's eye, to which Solo's response is a small, relieved sigh.

"Thanks, Peril," he then murmurs.

Illya nods. "No problem, Cowboy." He thinks about those never-ending minutes between when he realized Solo was gone and when he found him again. Fights the urge to pull Solo closer. Admits, just to himself for now, that he hasn't hated working with Solo in a long time.

* * *

Gaby doesn't know what to make of Ottawa. Whenever she'd dreamed of visiting America she'd pictured New York, Los Angeles, somewhere unapologetically, brashly bustling and _American_. Despite being Canada's capital, Ottawa seems dull, a city built around government rather than a government brought to the place where society happens. But Waverly insists that Canada has a hand deeper in espionage than most outsiders would suspect, not to mention the nuclear reactor a couple hours' drive away is a tempting target for anyone looking to weaponize. The canal which crookedly bisects the centre of the city is frozen, it being February, and from the apartment she shares with her partners she can catch glimpses, in a gap between buildings, of people gliding along the ice, bundled specks of navy and black and other common coat colours. Illya and Solo both tried to convince her to skate. It looks fun, but she's too afraid of reinjuring herself to take the risk.

Unlike Lucerne, which had been a messy, difficult mission, so far things are smooth. Gaby plays wife to Solo's diplomat during the day, with Illya their dutiful bodyguard. In the evening they often separate, running down leads or chasing after reluctant sources, which means that Gaby sometimes gets back early and hears the others come in late, or vice versa. If Solo's been out until some obscene hour of the night in the morning he'll trundle into the kitchen by ten at the earliest, greeted by Illya with a hot coffee, who has more and more struggled to keep up the pretense that he's not keeping the kettle warm just to be ready to pamper Solo. If Illya's the one out late he normally rises early anyways, never far behind the dawn, but he'll sip on his tea until Solo rises and then make a hearty breakfast, a bit too lavish to not be putting a touch of extra effort in. And if Gaby's the one delayed, when she wakes she often creeps to the kitchen doorway, pausing unobserved to watch the men shoulder-to-shoulder, chatting in a conversational blend of Russian and English, sometimes discussing the mission, sometimes, not often but enough that she's caught it more than once, discussing _her_. What to make her for breakfast, whether they think she'll want to go to the park for a walk, whether Illya should light the fireplace later that day because they've noticed she likes the warmth. Hearing the care in their voices never fails to make Gaby's stomach do something that feels like being back on stage and twirling through fouettés, turning, turning, turning, desperately whipping her head around to keep herself from growing dizzily lost in the motion, hot from the lights and body thrumming with the rush of adrenaline.

This morning it's her and Illya who rise first, Solo still abed. Illya has the kettle steaming already when she wanders in, the thin, bluish dawn light of the winter sun outlining his broad shoulders where he leans against the counter, looking out the window. She thinks of Rome, of vague recollections of setting her hands to those shoulders before sliding down, down, but she was too drunk to be sure how much of that even happened, never mind what happened after.

"Good morning," Illya murmurs, clearly having heard her entrance.

"Morning," she grunts, brushing thoughts of Rome from her head to focus on the immediate: coffee.

"What time did he come back?"

Gaby thinks to when the mattress dipped, awakening her briefly, and Solo whispered his apologies to her. "Around four, four-thirty?"

Illya makes a sympathetic noise. Then, turning to face her properly, his face quirks into that expression of his which she's learned means he's decided to be funny. "We may have to make our own breakfast if we don't want to starve in the harsh Canadian winter."

Gaby snorts. She's pretty sure she shouldn't have found that amusing but there's something about the way Illya approaches humour, like he knows that most people don't expect him to have any sense for it and so the rare opportunity to show off fills him with pride. She most definitely should not find _that_ so endearing.

"I'm having Butterbrot, if you want something else that's your problem," she responds. "But first coffee." As she prepares her mug Illya pokes his head into the fridge, pawing through the dizzying variety of foods with which he and Solo have kept them stocked, smoked meats and fine cheeses and tart-sweet fruit preserves. Thanks to those two she has definitely eaten better in the past nine months than she did for the rest of her adult life. She leaves him to it, taking a long, deep pull from her coffee, letting the warmth seep into her chest. Pure heaven on a chilly winter day. When she glances at Illya again his eyes are already on her, but he looks away before she can read his expression.

"Is he..." Illya begins. "Does he sleep?"

Gaby could play ignorance here, _of course he sleeps_ , but she knows that thanks to Lucerne, when Illya's room shared a wall with Solo's, he knows that Solo has nightmares sometimes. About what she's not sure, it's not her business to ask and Solo has never told her, but they seem to crest and fall in waves, two or three good weeks followed by a bad one. When his thrashing wakes her she sometimes scoots closer and smooths her hand through his hair until he goes still. She doesn't know if he's aware of that but they don't speak of it, just as he doesn't speak about how on some nights, when _she's_ the one haunted by the past, she'll wake up to find herself curled into him, her hands clutched to the fabric of his pyjamas, one of his arms looped protectively around her waist.

"He was sleeping well when I got up."

Illya makes a sharp, satisfied noise, setting a skillet on the stove to heat up before taking a sip of his tea. Gaby takes out the loaf of bread—the good crusty stuff Illya found at a boulangerie around the corner, not that horrible mush that passes for bread at the supermarkets here—and starts making thick slices, two each for Solo and Illya, one for her. Illya has commandeered the butter to grease the pan so while she waits she leans back against the counter to drain the rest of her coffee as she rolls her eyes faintly at him. To call him 'perky' would be a stretch but he thrives in the morning, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet while he stands at the stove, his eyes bright and alert with only a cup of tea in him. Utterly unnatural, in Gaby's opinion.

"Do you think he will want bacon?" Illya prompts.

"Probably."

Illya goes back to the fridge to get the bacon. She's not sure what's more absurd, Illya's obvious desire to please Solo or his extreme aversion to Solo knowing about it, something which happened during Lucerne, too, in that spell when she was away from them. She itches to ask Illya what changed for him that softened his attitude towards their shared partner but she doubts he'd tell her, just like she wouldn't tell him about the unexpected little intimacies she's learned sharing a bed with Solo. The flutter of his dark eyelashes when he's dreaming, the reluctant groan he makes when leaving the warmth of their bed, the quirks of his taste in choosing ties as he holds up his options, seeking her opinion. It shouldn't be that much different than Rome, when she'd spent two nights in that neat little bed opposite Illya's, but that was over before it had even begun, too brief for anything meaningful. No, she can't tell Illya any of that, not when she isn't yet certain what to do with that knowledge herself.

So she makes her bread, spreading on too much butter, then stealing the block of cheese Illya has set out so she can cut thick slices for herself, then taking the honey and slathering it over Illya's portion instead of cheese, a preference he only admitted to her with obvious embarrassment about a month ago. His fried eggs are shaping up nicely, hissing on the skillet while he tosses in bits of sausage and cheese until satisfied. When she hands over his honeyed bread he makes a pleased, thankful little noise in his throat, eating the sticky treat one-handed while he minds his creation for Solo.

Sometimes she doesn't notice Illya in the same way as Solo. Both are attractive, of course, but Solo more obviously so, with his rugged features and swimmer's build, drawing her eye even when she doesn't intend to let it wander. Illya's appeal is different, subtler; his face a bit softer, his body lanky, at times nearly awkward. Yet now, bathed in the morning light, diligently working at the food, biting his lower lip faintly in concentration, it hits her in a crashing wave, that _want_ for him so strong that she struggles to keep afloat in the current of it. She could reach up, curl her fingers into the back of his neck and tug him down to her. It wouldn't be hard. She knows he wouldn't resist. But she doesn't, pinned in place by the opposing tide of her feelings for Solo, by the deep undertow of what she suspects runs between the men separate from her altogether. Or perhaps not separate. Perhaps more running parallel to her wants, sometimes swirling and tangling together in messy eddies.

Illya catches her stare, giving her a puzzled look. She scowls, turns to make another cup of coffee. This is the moment Solo chooses to enter, grinning at her then at Illya, albeit in a disheveled, tired sort of fashion.

"Morning all. Coffee?"

"Already hot," Gaby answers.

"Thank god."

"I don't know how you two can drink that powdered stuff," Illya comments while Solo begins fixing himself a mug. "It's horrible."

"You don't even drink coffee," she points out.

"I can still appreciate quality. Why do you like it?"

"Got used to it during the war," Solo answers with a shrug.

"It was all we had back home." Gaby's addition is enough to make Illya give up the argument, at least for now. Instead he slides the fried eggs over to Solo.

"You can eat that now or wait until I make the bacon."

Solo tilts his head faintly at Illya, eyebrows inclining downwards. "Didn't think you liked bacon either, Mr Tea and Butterbrot for breakfast."

The tips of Illya's ears turn pink. "Have to keep you in enough calories so your pointlessly large muscles don't start stealing energy from your internal organs," he retorts, and though Gaby is quite certain it doesn't work like that she doesn't contradict him.

"Aw, Peril, you don't want me to waste away to nothing. If that ain't romance I don't know what is."

"Shut up and eat your eggs."

Solo looks utterly delighted. When Illya does enough scowling and grumbling to make his protests obvious he sneaks a glance over at Solo, the two of them locking eyes and not exactly smiling, but something close. Gaby feels the tug of them, towards her, towards each other, rushing around her chest, uncertain whether she's about to be swept under or float away. But the moment passes, like too many already have, everyone turning to their own food, and she wonders how much longer they'll be able to keep dismissing this. Wonders whether she should dread or hope for the day, or just await its arrival and pray they all come out swimming in the same direction.

* * *

In Tokyo they're all rooming together again. Illya normally rises first, but Solo is usually close behind him, emerging from his room in his satin robe, the collar of his pyjamas casually exposing the top of his chest, drawing Illya's eye. And then Gaby will join them, bare ankles peeking out from the hem of her stripey sleep pants, her hair loose, falling over her shoulders in lazy waves. Illya can't quite believe he would die for both of them but still has yet to kiss either. He knows that Gaby and Solo kissed at least once in Ottawa, when they had made a cover of being married, and watching Solo lean down and press his lips to Gaby's had left Illya gaping, unable to look away, unable to hear the crowd of the ballroom over the drumming of his heart. And later that evening, lying in bed, he'd been unable to stop picturing it, leaving him achingly hard until he'd given into the guilty pleasure of jerking himself off to the image of Gaby and Solo together.

But that was the past. Illya doesn't like to think about the past too much.

Their mission here has them mostly separating in the days again, so they come together in the evenings, congregating around the kitchen table. The kitchen is as cramped as the rest of the tiny flat, with a too-small window that looks out onto quadruple train tracks, which Illya never opens after the first day because the air carries a vaguely acrid scent and Solo complains that it makes him cough. On the positive side, though, the lights of the city shimmer at night, a tempting dance of colour that makes Illya feel equal parts energized and unsettled. The city feels like a tidal whirlpool, churning with potential as the waters change direction. Perhaps it's that spirit that rubs off on all of them, that finally sparks its own change.

With a bottle of wine or spirits split unevenly amongst the three of them, they're at the kitchen table one night, with music provided by the tinny speaker of Gaby's portable record player, which offers three-minute bursts of sound, lending a particular rhythm to their time between arguments about whose turn it is to go flip sides or put on another single. Gaby often likes to dance after a few drinks and has little difficulty convincing Solo to join her. Illya watches. Despite their insistence that if he just _relaxes_ he'll enjoy dancing, he knows himself well enough to be certain that he'll get much more enjoyment from sitting at the table, his fingers curled loosely around the neck of a beer bottle, his eyes fixed on the sway of Gaby's hips and the breadth of Solo's hands covering those hips. There's a heady thrill to watching them like this, not quite voyeurism yet with just enough of that to make Illya's stomach tighten with heat. It's not that he doesn't want to touch them the way they're touching each other—Gaby's hands brushing down the muscles of Solo's arm, him tipping forward, achingly close but just far enough that the only contact is his loose hair brushes the arc of her bangs—because he does, oh, he does, but he's terrified to shatter the moment, to make the wrong move and send the other two skittering away from each other. Terrified to renounce the ascetic trance of his self-denial for the uncomfortable indulgence of admitting his wants.

(He thinks of being fourteen, of that strange dullness of feeling that settled over him sometimes, like the fire of his soul had been starved for oxygen and was guttering weakly, waiting for a fresh spark. Thinks of the way that sometimes when he was alone he'd take his dull pocket knife and slowly press the blade into the pad of his thumb, not to cut himself but for the burst of sensation, the roar of life back to him, and then not for the pain but to see how long he could endure it before giving in, the pleasure of release sweeter and sweeter the longer he held out. He thinks that he was a very dramatic youth but that he hasn't fully shed those urges.)

Most of the songs in Gaby's collection are up-tempo, but the odd ballad sneaks in. When it's Illya's turn to put on a new record, as he watches the way Gaby is sipping from Solo's wine glass while eyeing the flush of exertion on Solo's cheeks, he hesitates only for a moment before making his choice. She gives him a sharp look when Ray Charles starts crooning, but then Solo's grinning down and tossing his arms open, inviting her into a classic dancing embrace, and Gaby accepts, drawn to him in much the same way Illya often finds himself—not wanting to be so desperately attracted to Solo but unable to resist. But then she, too, grins, tipping her chin up to meet Solo's gaze with that dangerous little smile Illya remembers from Rome, sly with mischief, which dissolves when Solo's arm settles around her waist, his hand spanning the small of her back. Gaby swallows, smile gone, staring at him.

(It feels like the sharp steel edge of something, that gleaming precipice which could slip so easily between pain and pleasure. Illya shivers in his chair.)

Solo too seems to have sensed the change in mood. They've turned so he's facing away from Illya, the sculpture-perfect muscles of his back flexing under the silk of his waistcoat, the two of them angled just so Illya can see Gaby around Solo's right shoulder. Solo's gone quiet, not bantering with Illya or making quips about the music, every bit of his being focused on Gaby before him. Illya sees the muscles of his left arm flex, is hit by a bolt of electricity when whatever Solo's done with that hand low on Gaby's back causes her to make a sudden inhale as her hand spasms, clawing into the meat of Solo's shoulder. Time feels syrupy, moving too slow. Illya can't quite breathe. Then Gaby's gaze darts away from Solo, finding Illya, her eyes dark and wide, searching, questioning, _wanting._

Illya can never deny Gaby what she wants.

"Kiss him."

Illya can't believe he's just said it, the words pulsing in his head like a drum. _Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him._ He sees the moment it registers with Solo when he freezes, stops moving, stops breathing. Sees it settle into Gaby, with confusion as her eyes flick back to Solo for a half second before returning to Illya, not seeking permission but certainty that she understands him.

_"Kiss him."_

Gaby holds Illya's gaze for another full second, unblinking, and he gets to watch the idea blossom within her until she once again returns her attention to Solo. She bites her lip. Then she darts up onto her tip-toes at the same time she tugs Solo down. Time stops. Illya still can't breathe. Solo is terrifyingly still for half a second until Gaby does something, leans into him, and then he bursts back to life, one hand curling around her hip again, the other winding through her hair, Gaby clawing into the back of his neck until he makes a punched-out little groan that goes right to the pit of Illya's stomach.

He should be jealous. Some part of him knows that. But as he watches the way Gaby presses closer, tugging Solo's lower lip with her teeth until he makes that groan again, the way Solo's hands dance restlessly across her body, like he needs to touch _all_ of her and is overwhelmed by the possibilities, the way Gaby's cheeks flush and her eyelids flutter, all Illya feels is want, fire in his belly, the blade of the knife pressing so deeply into his flesh until it turns into an almost welcome burn. Illya hears himself sigh, harsh with desire.

When Solo pulls back Gaby makes a disappointed noise, swaying after him, every unfolding moment of this revealing to Illya some desire he'd never even imagined. He wants to hear that noise again. Wants to hear what it sounds like from Solo. Wants, wants, _wants_. Solo must want too. He doesn't hesitate to begin working his way along Gaby's jaw, down her throat, making her eyes roll shut again.

"How does he kiss?" Illya asks her.

"Like...like it's everything," she gets out, breathless. "Like—oh _fuck_ —" Solo sets his teeth to her pulse and she lets out a sound very near to a whimper, "—like he was scared you wouldn't like this until you did and then he can't get enough. Like—hey, no marks," she rebukes Solo when he stays on one spot a bit too long. Then she throws her head back when Solo instead finds a different, apparently even more effective spot. "Oh _God,_ Illya—"

"And what does she taste like?" Illya interrupts, not yet ready to be brought in as participant to whatever this has become.

Solo pauses in the crook of her neck, nose brushing against her collar bone. "Her lips taste like the wine. Like chocolate from dessert. But her skin, it's like—You know the way you wake up to her hair in your face and you take a deep breath and it's just _Gaby_?"

Illya thinks back to the few times he's shared a bed with Gaby and, just once, a couch. He knows. "Yeah."

"Like that."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Gaby mutters, her hips stuttering towards Solo. "Come on, I need—" She tugs at him, pushing, almost jockeying until he perches on the edge of the table and she's in his lap. "Illya, are you—?"

Illya shakes his head, then realizes Gaby probably didn't see that because her eyes are now closed and also her lips are now attached to Solo's again. "Not yet. I want to...I like this. Watching."

"Do you want to watch me fuck him?"

This time it's Solo's hips that jolt, Solo who makes a surprised moan against her skin. Gaby doesn't react to him, just looks over her shoulder and holds Illya's gaze, hungry, knife-sharp.

"Yes."

* * *

There are many kitchens after that one in which they finally came together. Many breakfasts made, dinners shared, dishes done, and a few more impromptu makeout sessions in between it all. Gaby's favourite of all, though, has to be the one to which they end up returning when their saving the world days are over. The one in the non-descript house on a non-descript street in a city large enough that few people notice three newcomers and fewer still care. The one in which Napoleon gets to finally have his own cookware, a cultivated collection of shining pots and pans which he babies as if they were his children, in which she'll find sometimes Illya cleaning that pistol he keeps tucked away in the bedroom just in case their former professional life finds them again, in which she produces a series of inedible bricks and cannonballs until she eventually figures out how to make bread which passes both her and Illya's standards.

Their kitchen isn't large, which had been the largest sticking point in choosing it during their house-hunt, but it has a south-facing window above the sink, which warms Gaby's arms as she does the dishes in the afternoons and houses a collection of herb plants in varying degrees of neglect, their care technically Napoleon's domain but he never manages to remember them until he needs summer savory and then makes a dismayed noise at the dessicated husk he finds instead of fresh greens. There's a little table shoved in the corner of the room with three mismatched chairs from a second-hand shop, providing everyone a space as long as Illya doesn't sprawl out too much.

It feels like _home_ in a way Gaby's never truly had. A place she was able to shape, with her chosen paint on the walls, yet a space she's chosen to share, only grumbling occasionally when she has to push aside the others' groceries in the fridge to get at what she wants. Now that she's here she can't imagine her life any other way, even though she knows how easily this could have never come to pass; a knife that had strayed a bit to the left, a bullet that hadn't missed its mark, the big dangers are obvious. Less obvious was that liminal spell between when they knew U.N.C.L.E. would end and when it did, when the three of them were suddenly forced to choose what happened next, to choose whether they would walk away, leave their relationship behind as one bourne of proximity, or whether they would make the far more difficult choice to stay. They stayed. But for Gaby it was a very near thing, and she may never tell the men the full extent of her inner turmoil. Staying had meant acknowledging that what they all had meant something to her, that it was something precious enough that its loss could hurt her, and Gaby had been far too hurt by far too much loss in her life not to be wary of it happening again. And the longer she stays, the more devastating that loss could be, yet she cannot bring herself to leave them, to deny herself the warmth of their shared bed, to deny herself her home. She's become weak as she grows older. But despite this knowledge, she stays.

She stays through the arguments about whose turn it is to vacuum, to cook, to clean the bathroom. She stays through the nights when she has panic attacks and Napoleon has nightmares and Illya has violent episodes, sometimes separately, sometimes in a cascading clusterfuck of dysfunction that leaves them all a wreck for the next day or two even when the worst of it has passed. She stays through the time a former enemy finds them and the debate about whether or not to kill the assassin nearly tears them apart. She stays for the bad times, the ones that almost break them, because the good times are so much better than she'd ever known life could be.

Good times like mornings, waking with her face pressed to the warmth of Napoleon's back, rising to find Illya has made coffee, which he offers to her with a sweet kiss and a gentle ribbing about the state of her caffeine addiction. Ones like the day she and Napoleon replace the kitchen sink, side-by-side under the counter, his broad shoulders hopelessly in the way but his hands steady enough that she doesn't banish him to handing her tools. Illya's love can still overwhelm her with its intensity but Napoleon's is quiet and true and sometimes she has to dig it out of him. Text and subtext. She doesn't love them in exactly the same way but she loves them the same amount, and together they achieve a balance that she thinks would be impossible if one of them were absent. Illya and Napoleon still compete over the stupidest shit she can possibly imagine, but now at least half of their pointless competitions end in annoyed makeout sessions, so Gaby can't complain.

Except about the dishes. It's Illya's turn, dammit.

**Author's Note:**

> To shoes, I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> And yes I swore I would never write a 5+1 and in my defense I am not going to tag it as such and therefore no one can criticize me. Also, suggested (and very strongly rejected) titles include "tinker tailor soldier cook" and "the great spy cook off".


End file.
